Dali Got It Wrong
by Ossian
Summary: If you think you have trouble remembering things, imagine how difficult it would be to keep track of 5000 years.


"Dali Got It Wrong"  
  
  
"... Stephen Rousch. I don't think we've met yet," the distinguished gentleman with graying temples said with a benevolent smile.   
  
The young man set the book back on the shelf and returned the smile. He extended his hand... and had a complete memory meltdown.  
  
Name, he thought frantically. What was his name? No. What name was he using? A litany of curses streamed through his mind, spanning a myriad of languages and ages, but his current name persisted in evading him. Martin? Thomas? Mykano? The harder he dug, the more elusive the memories became. With horror, he realized that his entire persona had vanished. His mind became an utter void as he desperately tried to remember who he was, where he was, even what language he was supposed to be speaking... The curses ran again, mostly Russian. Russian was the best language on the planet to swear in, he thought irrelevantly. It just had a great ring to it. The young man was not, however, currently in Russia. Probably.  
  
He faked a sudden coughing fit and fled.  
  
Thankfully the small restroom was vacant. He pried his wallet out of his pocket and flipped through it rapidly. Pierson, the card read. Adam. Of course. He resisted smacking himself in the head. Adam; his own personal joke and he'd forgotten. Once he had the name, the rest of Adam's life dropped back into place. Perennial graduate student. Linguistics. Paris. Watchers.  
  
Bloody hell.  
  
More Russian. A bit of colorful Anglo-Saxon. A few choice words from a language no living person could correctly pronounce anymore.  
  
"Adam" pushed up the cuff of his shirt and stared down at the inside of his wrist. A circular tattoo with a flying M in its center. Personally he thought that it was probably on upside down, but who was he to argue with a tradition hundreds of years old? He laughed quietly to himself as he put his wallet away. He raked long fingers through his mop of dark hair and noted dispassionately that "Adam" was woefully underdressed for the gathering outside. A Watchers' meeting, he remembered now. The long-sleeved tee-shirt and black jeans had most likely set his superiors to muttering darkly about him this evening. His smile brightened at the thought.  
  
He knew that he'd handled his brain seizure well enough, even if it had come at an absolutely wretched time. He'd had to resort to the coughing fit ploy more times than he could count over the years. Ironically, the routine was easier to remember than his ever-changing name seemed to be. Adam Pierson, he reminded himself once again. He had been "Adam" for three years now. Working-class childhood in a small coal-mining town. A small volume of fairytales in an obscure bookshop. A chance meeting with one Donald Salzer. The details of his fabricated existence filtered back into his head. Pile enough lifetimes on top of one another, he thought ruefully, and the details either drown you or desert you.  
  
With a final look in the restroom's small mirror he schooled his sharp features into a picture of wide-eyed innocence. It slipped momentarily as he snorted at his own folly. Watchers. What had he been thinking? He took a deep breath and shrugged. Much as he detested meetings of any sort, he doubted that hiding in the loo would be an acceptable way to spend the rest of the night. He pulled open the door and squared his shoulders. Then he shook his head, dropped his shoulders, and headed back to the library. Here and now, he chanted silently as he walked. No getting lost in old books and forgetting who he was supposed to be.  
  
Back in the library, the meeting was already underway. The presiding speaker gave him a disapproving frown as he slumped into a seat near the back wall.  
  
"Are you alright, Adam?" the man beside him whispered in concern.  
  
"Fine. Just too much dust in my lungs," he whispered back. He kept the wry smile from reaching his lips, knowing that the bookshop owner wouldn't understand his private amusement. He slouched lower in the chair and wondered briefly if he could be fired for falling asleep.   



End file.
